tf JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

Road, the motor salesmen in Great Portland Street. It
seems to satisfy, temporarily, the sense of nostalgia
for something lost; it seems to represent a stage
further back.

Streets that follow like a tedious argument of in-
sidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

But there are times of impatience, when one is less
content to rest at the urban stage, when one is willing
to suffer some discomfort for the chance of finding—
there are a thousand names for it, King Solomon's
Mines, the "heart of darkness" if one is romantically
inclined, or more simply, as Herr Heuser puts it in
his African novel, The Inner Journey, one's place in
time, based on a knowledge not only of one's present
but of the past from which one has emerged. There
are others, of course, who prefer to look a stage ahead,
for whom Intourist provides cheap tickets into a
plausible future, but my journey represented a dis-
trust of any future based on what we are.

The motive of a journey deserves a little attention.
It is not the fully conscious mind which chooses West
Africa in preference to Switzerland. The psycho-
analyst, who takes the images of a dream one by
one—*Tou dreamed you were asleep in a forest.
What is your first association to forest?"—finds that
some images have immediate associations; to others
the patient can bring out nothing at all; his brain is
like a cinema in which the warning "Tire" has been
cried; the exits are jammed with too many people
trying to escape, and when I say that to me Africa